


Captive

by trollmela



Series: Captive [2]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hermaphrodites, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Odysseus has taken a slave: Paris-Alexandros, a hermaphrodite he came across with others while hunting. But while Paris seems malleable on the surface, he is hard as rock inside, and whatever Odysseus had secretly hoped for becomes increasingly unrealistic. Slowly, Odysseus is starting to wonder who took whom captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Hunting Party".
> 
> Warnings: There is mention of rape, but it is not committed (or threatened).

Whenever Paris-Alexandros went to fetch water or had other reasons to walk through the Greek camp, the men would whisper and point at him, and their slaves would do the same. Paris ignored it, glad that the other warriors at least kept their hands off him—not all slaves were that lucky. Curiously enough, Odysseus had not touched him either. Paris could tell that the Greek wanted to, but he held back for some reason Paris could not fathom.

He did not know the reason why he was the center of so much attention until one day, in Odysseus absence, a visitor came by. He was tall and strong, his blond hair long and twisted into braids. Paris fetched him wine and let him stay in the cool shade of Odysseus’ tent, for his name Paris had heard many times before although he had not seen the man himself but from afar.

“Do you know why they stare at you so?” Achilles asked.

“No.”

Achilles watched him with eyes more intelligent than Paris had expected. His reputation stemmed entirely from his skill in battle and never had Paris heard it said that Achilles was also capable of judging a man’s character.

“You’re the first slave Odysseus has ever voluntarily taken for himself in at least fifteen years.”

Paris was surprised. Fifteen years was a very long time.

“He has a wife, whom he loves very much,” Achilles added.

Paris thought that perhaps that then was the reason why Odysseus had not raped him, but it did not explain why Odysseus’ had taken him captive at all. Curious, Paris steadily returned Achilles’ gaze.

“Why do you think he took me?”

“I had wondered that, too, before I met you. Now, it has become clearer to me.” The warrior smiled and reached out to cup Paris’ face.

Odysseus entered the tent then, and the entire tableau froze like a painting on the wall.

Achilles pulled back, and Paris forced himself to brake eye contact. Turning to Odysseus, the golden warrior said:

“My friend, I was just waiting for you.”

“And occupying your time inspecting my treasures?”

Paris thought that he had become good at reading Odysseus’ moods. He had always been perceptive. It was a skill that was useful when one’s future was constantly schemed over, so that one knew which side to support to receive the least harm. But this time Paris could not tell with certainty whether Odysseus was angry or joking. Achilles only smiled and Paris wondered whether the warrior knew any better than he.

“Some of them are extraordinary.”

Odysseus smiled as well, but it was different from the smiles Paris had seen Odysseus wear so far.

“Paris, bring me some wine, and then you may rest,” Odysseus ordered gently. He was always gentle in his demands.

Paris turned away wordlessly to do as he was bidden. He obeyed, but he did not call Odysseus ‘master’ nor by any other name that would put Paris below him. Odysseus had not insisted on it either, perhaps liking the way Paris went about his new life with practically cold obedience. He had adopted the same manner with his husband, for he had known that his fate was unavoidable, and at the same time he had been unwilling to bend more than absolutely necessary. Although he sometimes felt like a weeping willow tree, or an old woman walking bent as if she was both the wall and the shelf protruding from it, he forced himself to keep straightening and weather the next storm like a mountain rather than a willow tree.

Paris fetched the wine. Taking rest meant that Odysseus wanted him to stay inside the tent, in the sleeping section curtained from the part where Odysseus sat with Achilles. Paris did not mind staying there more than elsewhere. Usually he lay down on his pallet, softened and warmed by furs of animals felled by Odysseus’ own hand. This time, he knelt down as close as he dared to the curtain dividing the tent into two sections and strained his ears to hear the conversation on the other side.

But if he was expecting something in particular, he was disappointed. They spoke of the war, of people they knew and their homes, briefly, which Paris found most disappointing. When Achilles left, Paris retreated to his pallet quickly. Odysseus came in shortly after, and he glanced at the spot Paris had eavesdropped from in a way that made Paris think that perhaps the curtain was not as opaque from the other side as he had thought.

“King Agamemnon received a message from King Priam. The King of Troy wonders whether his child Paris is held captive in the Greek camp.”

“You should know.”

“I should, yes.” Odysseus rubbed a hand over his chin, a gesture Paris knew him to make when he was thinking. “I feel at times as if it is the opposite.”

That night, Paris woke up without, at first, no apparent reason. But his ears quickly caught the sound of heavy breathing and suppressed moans and gasps, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw Odysseus lying on his own sleeping pallet on the other side of the tent. The man’s fist was wrapped tightly around his erection, that much Paris could see. The strain on Odysseus’ face appeared at first as if it was from the effort of stifling his sounds of pleasure. Paris looked closer at what rose between the man’s thighs. He imagined the wet shine of precome on the tip of Odysseus’ erection, and Paris watched with astonishment that although the king sounded so close to completion, he staved it off. His back bowed, and the muscles of his stomach shifted. Then Odysseus’ breath caught in a loud gasp and Paris looked up to his face to find himself caught by Odysseus’ surprised gaze. The glint of Paris’ eyes must have given him away. Immediately afterward, Odysseus came with a loud groan. His seed splattered up his chest, while he stroked himself through the wave of his orgasm with a wet hand.

Odysseus laid motionless, his breath returning to him slowly as Paris watched him just like Odysseus watched him. After a few moments, Paris rose and went to the wash basin at the foot of Odysseus’ pallet. The wash cloth intended for the next morning lay there, a thing becoming too small and thin of long use. Paris rinsed it in water, then approached Odysseus and wiped away the seed on his chest, then from his groin and the pubic hair there. Paris closed his fist with the cloth inside around Odysseus’ cock, cleaning him gently as Odysseus shuddered and groaned. His manhood twitched in Paris’ grasp, but the Trojan ignored it and cleaned the king between his thighs that opened easily to his ministrations. Cupping Odysseus’ balls, Paris washed off the last traces of seed. When he rose to rinse the cloth in the wash basin, he realized that some of Odysseus’ come was now on his own fingers. He returned to wash Odysseus’ hands. The Ithacan looked at him, perhaps trying to find some reaction, but Paris did not show one.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen a man masturbate, of course, and, forcibly, he had had sex many times with his husband. He had had little reason to enjoy it, and ignored it when his man had jerked himself off on Paris when he had believed the hermaphrodite to be asleep. Watching Odysseus had been different, but Paris could not explain it. The king of Ithaca’s manhood was no larger or smaller than his deceased husband’s. Glancing once more between Odysseus’ thighs and at the heavy balls and the sac resting there he found himself lacking. Often Paris had wondered if he was some half-baked creature that the gods had forgotten to finish, or discarded when they realized that they had accidentally formed him in the shape of both sexes. Compared to men, his length and the size of his balls was less, yet when he compared himself to women he found his breasts no larger than those of an adolescent either. He did not have the adult figure of either one sex or the other, and perhaps that was one reason why his family treated him like a possession.

Odysseus’ hands were strong, too, and here it was not all in the size. They were simply used to picking up a weapon and defending the Ithacan’s life. Paris wished he had hands like that. With no trace of Odysseus’ climax left, Paris returned the cloth. 

“I’m going back to sleep,” Paris announced.

Odysseus only nodded.

The next day, Odysseus brought Paris to Agamemnon’s living quarters and center of command. The king of kings had made his quarters in the hull of a ship, and compared to Odysseus’ tent, who was a king, too, after all, it was quite impressive and meant to be so. In all things, it seemed, Agamemnon had to outshine the other kings.

A messenger awaited them there, a man of Troy sent by King Priam.

“This is Paris-Alexandros, child of King Priam then?” Agamemnon asked, studying Paris from head to toe with penetrating eyes. They still did not see much more than the surface. “I can see why he did not name him or her son or daughter.”

“Yes, this is him,” the messenger confirmed, gently emphasizing him even as his voice trembled with nervousness. Whatever other wishes Paris’ family had ignored, they had all accepted that he wanted to be called a male. Paris did not know the man himself, but that was no surprise. “King Priam is open to negotiation regarding his release and safe return. He offers you half of Paris’ weight in gold, two hundred Egyptian silver coins, and two of his finest horses.”

Agamemnon raised an eyebrow. It was a fine offer indeed. But of course he would not accept it.

“His entire weight in gold, five of Priam’s finest horses, and fifty swords.”

The messenger bristled. “My king will never agree to paying with swords!”

Indeed, it would be quite the irony if Troy supplied Greece with weapons it would then be besieged with.

Agamemnon shrugged. “To be fair, Paris-Alexandros was captured by my man King Odysseus here. Perhaps he does not wish to part with the ‘dite.”

“If King Agamemnon decides that a worthy offer was made, I will consider it,” Odysseus replied.

Paris couldn’t tell whether Odysseus was counting on Agamemnon making such outrageous demands that King Priam would give up, or whether Odysseus felt obliged to do whatever Agamemnon decided.

“If you make demands I have my own to add,” Paris spoke up.

Agamemnon laughed. “The captives are making demands now, too? Make your demands to Odysseus in private and see if he will not beat your pretty ass for it!”

“My demands are not for Odysseus, but to Troy.” Paris turned to the messenger. “Tell King Priam that I will only consent to return if he swears that my future and fate will be my own to decide from now on, and mine alone! And that includes whether I wish to stay in Troy or not!”

The messenger spluttered. What could he say to what was clearly touching on family issues?

“But Lord Androkles awaits you, and he is very worried for your safety-”

“They have already found a new husband for me then? I realize that King Agamemnon and King Odysseus won’t care for my desires in this deal. But mark my words, if I do not get that promise from Priam, I will find a way to obstruct the deal, even if it costs me my life!”

Agamemnon laughed again. “A spirited young thing, is he? I can see why Odysseus coveted him so. To be fair, I do not care much whether he remains in the camp or not, whether he kills himself here or dies in Troy. So Priam had better think of an offer good enough to catch our interest! Now go back to your king.”


	2. Chapter 2

Odysseus wasn’t sure what outcome to hope for. Paris had made his demands quite clear, both in Agamemnon’s presence and when he had boldly turned away from Troy when Odysseus first met him: Paris did not want to go to Troy. His instinct that Paris would not be a wilting flower had been correct, but nor was Paris receptive to any advances. And why should he? After all, Odysseus was his captor, his master even, although Paris never called him that and Odysseus had not told him to.

This had quickly moved Odysseus to regret his decision to keep Paris. If he had been satisfied with sex, he could have raped Paris, but he wanted more. He wanted the hermaphrodite to look at him with love and devotion, and that would never happen, he realized. He also thought of his wife Andromache and wondered whether she would really accept him having another lover. His love for her had not lessened, but all the signs were against him.

Just once he would have liked to put his weary head on Paris’ chest after battle, or hold him during the nights when he could not sleep. He would nestle one of his legs between Paris’ thighs, his flesh touching Paris’ sexes. Yes, he had seen Paris naked; his tent might have been bigger than those of the common soldiers, but it was still a tent. He had even watched Paris that first day as the Trojan had shed his clothes without concern, wiped away the blood from between his legs and put on something to catch the bleeding. Perhaps the hermaphrodite had told himself that if he was to be raped, it would happen whether he hid his body from Odysseus or not. Odysseus had not touched him, neither that night nor after. He mourned Paris’ loss of innocence; not his virginity, that he would not have cared about, but his innocence, robbed by a man he was married to without his will, and apparently without any love blooming between Paris and his husband afterward.

Odysseus wondered at himself how he could ever have had any hope at all. Perhaps it was because Achilles’ slave, Briseis, had succumbed to Achilles’ desires. Odysseus had even see her talk animately to Paris, but although the hermaphrodite accepted her presence and sought it out rarely himself, he was made differently. Briseis was the soft earth, while Paris was the hard stone, hardened by life at even such a young age that any lover would have trouble approaching him, let alone receiving affection in turn.

But at the same time, Odysseus could not bear to let go of Paris. Perhaps it was a good thing that Priam sought his return, forcing Odysseus to finally make his choice.

Two days after the first messenger, another man visited them in Odysseus’ own tent. At first glance, Odysseus thought him to be the same kind as before, but once inside, the man threw back the hood of his cloak and revealed himself as Prince Hector. Odysseus greeted him respectfully, and not a moment later, Paris came with wine, his eyes wide. Apparently, even he had not expected Hector to show up. Without asking, he sat down with them.

“Why are you here?” He demanded.

Now that the two of them were sitting in front of him, Odysseus realized how much they resembled each other in their features

“You are family,” Odysseus concluded out loud.

Hector nodded. “Paris-Alexandros is my brother and sister both. I’m here to speak to him on behalf of my father.”

“I will go outside to give you time together, but I warn you: don’t think you can take him away without anyone seeing!”

Odysseus took his wine with him outside. He wondered whether he should ask Achilles to come and then watch what would happen once Hector left and saw the Myrmidon. He did not. Instead, he carefully sipped at his wine until Hector left the tent.

“My father is making a better offer to Agamemnon. He has time until tomorrow to make a decision. If anything happens to Paris in the meantime, I will hold you responsible.”

“You are already my enemy, Prince Hector. I don’t think I have much more to fear,” Odysseus replied.

Hector left without another retort.

When Paris did not come out, Odysseus returned inside. Paris was still sitting as before, but his wine cup was empty while Odysseus’ was still more than half-full. Tear tracks were still wet on his face, and Odysseus, after some hesitation, reached out and squeezed his shoulder. Paris looked up at him, and it moved Odysseus to embrace him, ignoring his promise to himself not to touch Paris intimately unless Paris initiated it. Odysseus’ lips were level with Paris’ forehead.

“Be honest with me, would you ever love me?” He asked.

Paris shook his head. “Not like this. I cannot. Had we met differently, yes, and perhaps I would not even care what you do here in Troy, like Briseis ignores what Achilles does. But not here, not like this.”

Odysseus felt tears pricking at his eyes.

“Pack your things. And go to sleep,” he ordered. And he pushed Paris gently towards the sleeping section.

When Paris was gone, Odysseus lay down on his back, but he quickly decided that he did not want to chance Paris seeing him break down. He wrapped a cloak much like the one Hector had worn around himself and went down to the sea, away from the camp where none would see him shed tears over unrequited, very, very foolish love. Had he ever been a bigger fool?

When he returned at last after nightfall, he found that Paris had saved him something to eat, and that the Trojan was in bed. Whether he was sleeping, Odysseus did not go find out. He had no time to sleep. Instead, he walked around the camp, wearing a pleasant smile. He shared a cup of wine with Agamemnon, Nestor, and others, and afterward went to where the pickets were.

The moon was veiled by clouds, and Odysseus thanked the gods for it. He readied a horse and went to wake up Paris.

“Priam refused to promise you a future of your own choosing,” he said. “Come with me and I will set you free.”

Within a few moments, Paris had taken his belongings and followed Odysseus. They mounted the horse, Paris in front of Odysseus the way he had been taken to the Greek camp. Odysseus held him tighter now. They passed the pickets without any of them noticing, just as Odysseus had thought when he checked them earlier.

They left the Greek camp behind, and passed Troy with a good distance between the city and them.

“You planned to go to Mount Ida, no?” Odysseus asked.

“Yes.”

“We should get to its outskirts by morning or so. I think you may want to travel further after that. To Babylon, perhaps, or to Egypt, though to both the way is very far. I have heard great things about them. But perhaps it won’t be necessary after all for you to flee that far. I have no doubt that we will give King Priam more than enough to do, and anyone he could send after you, would probably not be the most clever or the strongest.”

“I will remember your advice. Or perhaps I can find a ship to Greece.”

Odysseus laughed. “Why ever would you want to go to Greece?”

Paris only shrugged.

As Odysseus had predicted, they reached the foot of the mountain not long after dawn. He had Paris dismount, then jumped off the horse himself. After carrying double, his horse needed and deserved rest, and there was a creek nearby. He gave Paris the rest of the dried meat. It would last him a few days at least.

“And take this as well, for after.” And Odysseus handed the Trojan a bow, and a belt with a knife. “You will need both to hunt. And possibly to survive against men, too.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Paris accepted the gifts. The bow was Odysseus’ own hunting bow, smaller than his war bow, and he would miss it. But he would miss Paris more, so it was just as well.

“Thank you, Odysseus.”

Odysseus fingers nearly faltered in closing the belt around Paris’ waist. He made to step back, but Paris held him back with a hand at his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said again. And after another searching look, the Trojan pressed their lips together. Odysseus lost himself, and the world did not return until Paris released him. “Who knows…” Paris began, but Odysseus shook his head.

“Not I. I will not come after you again.”

They would never see each other again, Odysseus was sure, and although it pained him, it was for the better for both of them. This time it was really goodbye. Paris left, disappearing in the trees, and Odysseus remained, having sadly already shed his tears. He would not be back in camp until the afternoon, and when he returned, he would say that Paris was no longer there and could thus not be traded back to Troy. And Agamemnon would shrug his shoulders and dismiss the ransom he would not get. After all, Agamemnon said, it was waiting for him in Troy and would still be there together with all the other treasures when they got inside. Paris at least, Odysseus knew, would not be one of those treasures.


End file.
